Grin
by Krin
Summary: Short look into the lives of Kleiver and his forced sidekick Veger. How was Kleiver invited to race and why was Veger left behind? Takes place between J3 and JX.


**Another old one-shot (July 2006). Dude, nobody writes about Kleiver or Veger! Ottselified-Veger, no less! C'mon. Canon is creative. We can be, too! Rated for language and the general unpleasantries that come with the uncouth.**

**Basically, I wanted an interaction between these two characters (while filling big holes in canon with a little bit of… filling). Takes place between J3 and JX.**

* * *

The early morning sun scorches the shadow of a Kras City gangsta into the sand. He ain't no push-over messenger-boy, oh no, and he ain't no wastelander. He's pissed, actually. Sweat rolls up his chopped ears and flies off the tips, he's gunning the Anvil so hard. He hates the desert. But when Mizo himself takes a piss in your general direction, you don't stop to reach for the lacy towels. This is Word from the Top, and if the Top tells you to go to that shithole Spargus, you go.

Just inside the patchwork metal gate, a jumble of houses is carved into brown rock. Some of them have flags or laundry or ammo cartridges, you know, home-sweet-home shit, hanging out the windows or between balconies. But one house, the one at ground level with little claw marks all around the front door, has a distinct lack of graffiti.

Inside, an unlikely pair is eating breakfast.

"What _is_ this filth?" Veger picks a claw from the hunks of grade F meat on his plate. "I've seen better meals served to the Dark Warrior Program prisoners."

"Think you're the queen bee, do ya?" Kleiver takes a great big bite of rodent head. "You gotta crush the skull just so, between the teeth. These little animals, they got a nice crunch to 'em." He grins a real nasty grin. "Want to eat something else? _You_ go out and catch it."

Veger makes a face. Kleiver knows that Veger knows that he's not in any position to go out and catch things for breakfast. All the things out there worth eating would eat Veger. And Kleiver thinks this is real funny.

"Right. Thought not. So shut up and eat your vermin. Good for growing adventurers. Speakin' of which, I know you've got an in with the temple. Don't tell me there aren't any unexplored tunnels or somethin' under there. Though I'm an experienced connoisseur with desert artifacts, there's still a bit o' room on me rack for more." He gestures to a dilapidated bookshelf. It is nearly empty. "I wanna know where the shinies are, got me?"

"I've told you before," starts Veger. "I don't _have_ any secret treasure maps. Everything's either been destroyed, or it's in my office in Hav-"

A lot of swearing and knocking booms from the door.

"Hold up a minute," says Kleiver. "I think someone's out there." He heaves himself from his chair, straightens his loincloth, and waddles over. "Givin'em a load o' lead in the face if it's not good news." He cradles his gun in the crook of an elbow and opens the door. "H'lo. What the hell do you want?"

The man, wearing fancy, machine-made city clothes and sunburned tattoos, spits a wad of sandy saliva. "You Kleiver?"

"D'pends on who's asking, really." Kleiver nonchalantly scratches an ear with the muzzle of his gun.

"Look, I ain't pissin' around." The man folds his arms just enough for Veger to get a glimpse of steel poking out from his belt. "You Kleiver or not?"

"I'm the guy whose breakfast you're interrupting, so you better tell me what the hell you want, or I'm blowin' those tats right off your smarmy face. Got me?"

"Shit, I don't have time for this." This is the Kras gangsta out of his element. He's sweating, he's thirsty, and he sure as hell doesn't want to know why this wastelander has a half-naked ottsel sitting at his kitchen table. "A guy named Kleiver's wanted in Kras for some racing."

Suddenly, the fat wastelander is all smiles and gracious belching. "Well, why didn't you say so? Yeah, I'm Kleiver."

"Are you from Haven?" the ottsel pipes up. There's something akin to hope in his voice.

"Shuddup, ya squeaktoy. The big boys're talking." Kleiver extends an arm into his house. The man remains steadfast at the door.

"Mizo, a lord of, shall we say, criminally inclined virtues, requests your presence at the Grand Championship in Kras City."

Kleiver nods. "I'm aware o' Mizo. Got no troubles with him."

"Yeah, so…" The gangsta rolls his shirt sleeves up further. "You got two hours to accept the invitation or I'd suggest getting in communication with the local mortician."

Kleiver laughs. "They ain't teaching you poppies good manners, are they?"

Veger stands up on his chair. "I demand to know what's going on over there!"

Kleiver fires his gun, without looking, behind him. He figures that will stop the interruptions. But he's wrong. There is a high-pitched scream from both the ottsel and a neighbor-child, whose last living vision was of his bedroom wall exploding.

"I am a _god_, you hear me? A god!" Veger bangs his little fist on the table.

"You'll be god of the bottom o' my boots in a moment." Kleiver turns his full attention back to the door. "Look." He holds up three fingers. "There's two things you gotta know about bargaining with me." The gangsta raises an eyebrow. "One, you gotta pay me. And two, how much you gonna pay me?"

"It's all here." The Kras man shoves a piece of paper into Kleiver's hand. It's so hot in Spargus he can feel his badassness melting away. Underneath, well, we'll say there isn't much left underneath, and this is the one big secret Kras gangstas don't want you knowing. "I'm flying now, K. You get in touch with Mizo and everything'll be worked out."

"Peaches and cream." Kleiver decides that he likes the breeze coming up the walkway. So he just turns and goes back into the house without shutting the door. The gangsta stares for a second, mutters to himself, and gets the hell out of there.

"All right, anklebiter," says Kleiver, scanning the paper. "I'm leavin' for the big city, the Floating Smoke. Gonna teach that tooth-chipper who the big boar really is."

"What tooth-chipper?" asks Veger. His whiskers have picked up some sort of vibe. It tangles his stomach into horrible, twisted knots.

"Jak. While I'm gone-"

"Jak?!" If Veger had been eating his breakfast, he would've choked on it. "Jak?! I'm coming with you!" Veger is making fists, now. He wants to see that dark eco freak burn. Burrrrrrrrnnnnn. Burn and break open and fall over and die. Like the Palace, but with more screaming.

"No. You're stayin' 'ere and watchin' over me vehicles, got that? If any, _any_ one of 'em's got even a rust spot, it'll be ottsel stew with yakkow gristle for celebration dinner when I get back. Hear me?" The wastelander pokes his sidekick's gaunt face.

"No! I'm coming!" Veger brandishes his fork. "I'll stab your eyes out, you uncouth ogre!"

"You know," says Kleiver, leaning over the table. His voice gets low and calm. "We 'ave a saying, here in Spargus. 'If you can wipe your own ass, it's a good day.' You can still move your arms, so I don't know what all the fuss is about."

"Aha. Um." Veger glances at the hole in the wall and lowers the fork. "Very well. Ensure the quality of your barbarian transports. I'll do just that."

Kleiver smashes his fist into the remains of his meal and shovels it into his mouth. "Good, good."

Veger blinks and flicks lard off his vest.

Kleiver spends a grand ten minutes throwing random stuff into a bag. "See ya later! Watch the big vid screen for me old mug. I'll be in first place 'fore the week's out. And remember." He rubs his disturbing belly. "Ottsel soup if you don't make good on my vehicles."

"You said ottsel _stew_, moron," mutters Veger as the wastelander exits.

So, this is it. Veger hums a little and taps his fingertips on the table. He's waiting, because there's _no way_ Kleiver just left him here. The horrible beast will probably be back soon, laughing and dangling fresh fruit out of reach. Veger waits a minute, then two. After five, he hauls a stool over to the window and peeks outside. No mountain of stinking man in sight.

"Oh, this is good." Veger almost squeaks. "This is so very wonderful." He scampers over to the big pile of flatware in the corner and picks up a knife. "A start, a start." He knows there's always a harnessed leaper somewhere in Spargus. A free, unattended leaper, that is.

Where there's a will, there's a way. And where there's a way –he pulls out a tiny map and unfolds it- there's a path that will get you where you want to go.

"Here you are." He traces a dotted line to the temple. "That wretched monk will know how to reverse this hideous curse. Oh, what a day. Freedom and the promise of revenge." He looks around the house. "The next time I am here, there will be no shadows."

Veger's grin is a lot like Kleiver's, except there's far fewer skull fragments stuck between his teeth.


End file.
